


Meth is a hell of a drug (if only this was meth)

by zsomeone



Category: Metalocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-03
Updated: 2012-04-03
Packaged: 2018-03-16 23:31:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3506774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zsomeone/pseuds/zsomeone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pickles gets very high and has an interesting evening, some of it real, some of it not, and he can’t always be sure which is which.<br/>Pairings: a few implied, really nothing more<br/>Warnings: use of the word ‘faggot’ (so it doesn’t surprise you later)<br/>Written for the Hearts & Guts gift exchange</p>
            </blockquote>





	Meth is a hell of a drug (if only this was meth)

_If I could leave you with any wisdom it'd be black out more during the times that you are alive, so that you don't remember the life that you have. -Pickles the Drummer_

 

Pickles was in his room, and on various substances. He didn’t quite know what, sometimes it was more fun to just close his eyes and swallow whatever his fingers picked up. This was _supposed_ to be blackout time but every now and then his brain wouldn’t cooperate and he achieved the opposite effect instead, a sea of strange memories. Due to his lifelong habits, most of them would be things he didn’t consciously remember and therefore had no way to confirm or deny.

And sometimes there were visitors.

It was going to be a long night, but he settled back to enjoy the ride as well as he was able.

The drifting feeling of disorientation increased, Pickles closed his eyes and floated with it.

When he opened them again everything had changed, now he was in a completely different place.

He found himself back at that last, fateful Snakes N Barrels concert, after everything had gone insane. He shook his head to clear it, trying to get his bearings. Rikki Kixx was gone, so this was after the guards had thrown him aside and carried the other man off, but the crazy lights were still shooting everywhere.

Shooting from _all_ of their orifices.

He saw Dr. Rockso run by, his makeup a nightmare mix of cocaine and blood. No it wasn’t blood, it was too bright, something else then. Pickles had plenty of blood all over himself to compare it to. He jumped off the stage and headed to where he’d last seen his band.

There was an open space around them, even in their panicked state the crowd instinctively avoided the large blood pool there, spreading from the battered meatsack that could have only once been a man. Toki stood in the middle and they regarded each other, both of them covered in blood, most of which wasn’t theirs.

The others were standing back, not running away but staying uninvolved. They didn’t even matter. When Toki held out a hand Pickles walked forward and joined him, shoes squelching in the gore. A kiss had turned into another and then so much more, and they had fucked right there in the sticky blood under the insane light show, not even caring that they weren’t alone.

THAT DIDN’T HAPPEN, THAT NEVER FUCKING HAPPENED! He hadn’t even _seen_ them inside after they’d split up, and they’s already been back onboard the bus waiting for him when he’d finally made his way out. Toki had been sitting on the floor in the corner, wet and reeking of booze. They’d apparently tried to rinse him off with it, and the smell filled the entire space.

Pickles closed his eyes tightly, it was just a hallucination, wasn’t real. Slowly he became aware of his bed beneath him, his room around him. He was okay, he was safe at home...

He opened his eyes, yes he was back.

The door suddenly opened, and Pickles turned to face it expectantly. Someone was coming to keep him company? He could use some company, someone to keep him grounded in reality.

A painted freakshow burst in. “H-h-hey l-little guy! There’s a p-p-party in my p-pants and you’re invited!” 

No, not that fucking clown! Anyone but the clown.... Pickles closed his eyes and counted to three, for some reason three was always the magic number. He opened them. Now Murderface was standing there, okay that was better. He thought this might be all in his head, because how could the clown have gotten here? But maybe not...

“There’sch a party in my pantsch and you’re invited.” Murderface tried for a friendly grin, but the effect came off as more Deliverance than reassuring.

No, this wasn’t real! Murderface wouldn’t actually say that! Or maybe he would... Pickles did his counting trick again, knowing from experience that it made them go away. He didn’t know _why_ it worked, but it always did. So far anyway.

Not alone, not gone but changed, now Skwisgaar was leaning against his doorframe. “Dere ams a party in mine pants and you ams invitesteds.”

“Jest leave me alone!” Count to three, count to three twice for good measure...

Fuck! Twinkletits sat beside the bed in a chair that didn’t exist, he didn’t even have a chair in this room. “Pickles, I think you need to talk about your _feelings_. Let’s rock talk, alright?”

As much as he disliked the man, maybe he should talk to him? Even if he wasn’t real? Maybe _especially_ if he wasn’t real? Maybe he would know what was going on? “Yeah, okie.”

“Good! Let’s start with why you’re throwing a party in everybody’s pants, hmm? My party has _banana stickers_ , you know you want to come to mine.”

No, this was a bad idea! Hurry, count to three!

Skwisgaar was standing in his doorway again, why wouldn’t they leave him alone! They weren’t even real! “I told you ta git tha feck out!”

“Ja whatevers, nevers mind. Has fun goings crazy in here by youselfs den.”

Pickles blinked, and he was alone again. Shit, that had probably actually been Skwisgaar, the real one. Maybe? Oh well, he might apologize later if he remembered any of this.

The room shifted around him again, time dissolving like... like things that dissolved really fast. Pickles closed his eyes and opened them in the past.

So young, so tired, his red boots tight on his feet and his hair a sticky mess of sweat and hairspray.

It had been a good show, maybe even their best show yet, but Pickles just had one of his feelings. A bad feeling, the kind he thought he’d gotten away from. Shrugging off the usual post-show celebrating, he went to an empty booth, wanting to be away from everyone. But then someone found him.

“I always knew ya were jest a fuckin’ faggot.” Seth had found him, sitting in the back booth of the bar. He slid in across from him. Fucking Seth.

Pickles groaned and sunk lower in his seat, he knew somebody had seen them earlier, he’d had that creepy ‘somebody is watching’ feeling. He knew he was stupid for getting a blowjob in an alley like that where anyone could walk by, but he hadn’t cared at the time. Seth, fucking _Seth_ had followed him. The bastard wasn’t even supposed to be out yet, much less in this city. Just like always, he got away with everything and Pickles got caught.

Frankie Switchblade didn’t even give head that well anyway.

“How was he, liddle brother? It _was_ a ‘he’, raight? Kinda hard ta tell with all thet makeup you faggots all wear.” Sitting there smugly, smiling that hated grin.

“Stay tha feck away from me, Seth! I mean it!”

“Or what, you’ll tell on me? Report me ta my probation officer? Go right ahead, they won’t do anythin’ ta me. I’m nawt the little faggot who gat kicked out for kissin’ a boy!” That evil smile of his never faltered. “But I’ll tell ya what- Thet was quite a crowd yer band had earlier, I bet ya made sahm decent money. Gimme two hundred an’ I won’t say a word ta anybody, I prahmise.”

Pickles paid him, just like he _always_ did. Ever since they were kids. He hated himself for it but never managed to even put up much resistance. Satisfied, Seth sauntered off, leaving Pickles without the means to even pay his stupid bar tab. He was fucked. _Again._

A fan had saved his ass that night, some tall kid who slid into the booth moments later. Pickles couldn’t remember his name, if he’d even heard it over the din, but remembered thinking that there was no way in hell this kid was old enough to be in a bar. 

Pickles had studied him curiously. Tall and broad shouldered, but with that lanky awkwardness that comes from gaining height too fast and not yet knowing what to do with it. Skinny fucker, but he’d probably fill out once he stopped growing. Couldn’t be more than sixteen, if even that. The bouncer must have been fucking blind. His black eyeliner was uneven, clearly he hadn’t had much practice with it. His black hair was too short to tease, but looked as if he’d tried and failed. Or maybe he just never combed it, ever.

They’d made what passed for conversation, and Pickles agreed to signing the J-card of the SNB cassette he had in his pocket in exchange for free drinks. He didn’t know _how_ the kid could buy, but he wasn’t complaining.

Pickles wondered why he still thought of that kid sometimes, there had just been something about him. None of the other random fans stood out in is mind and there had been plenty of them over all the years. But some days he was just strongly reminded of that night in the bar, and never quite sure what triggered the memory.

The past merged back into the present, Pickles once again alone in his room. Not that he’d ever actually left...

There was a knock, and Nathan opened the door. That was good, Nathan was always welcome. For some reason, he just really felt like seeing Nathan right now. “Hey, cahm sit down!” Pickles patted the bed beside him.

Nathan sat, assuming he was actually there. He _looked_ like he was, but so had everything else so far this night. “Hi.”

“Heh, yeah I am. Rally high, I mean. Ya wouldn’t believe tha crap I’ve seen tanight. I dunno if yer even real.”

“Huh. Well I’m talking to you. Doesn’t that make me real?”

“A latta people’ve been talkin’ ta me tanight, so nawt rally. But I’m glad yer here.” He didn’t try to touch him, preferring the possibility of his reality over the chance that he wasn’t. With Nathan there, real or not, Pickles felt like he could finally relax a bit. He lay back and closed his eyes, needing to shut out at least some of the stimuli.

A few seconds or a few hours later when he opened them, Nathan was gone. If he’d ever been there in the first place. Fuck!

Pickles sat up too quickly and the room spun around him and out of existence.

The Yannemango blew the yopo through the tube and Pickles inhaled deeply. He’d had no expectations, he was immune to almost every fucking thing, but it hit him instantly. Feeling suddenly boneless, he sank to the rainforest floor, lying sill.

Pickles felt like he was underwater light and sounds were distorted, muted and seeming to undulate. He raised his arm, it appeared to flex like no proper arm should, impossibly long and waving, painted red in the low firelight. 

A large pale bird of some kind passed above him, catching his attention and settling on a low tree branch nearby. Instead of normal feathers, it’s wings seemed to be made of many fingers, fingers upon fingers. It had long hair, birds didn’t even _have_ hair, blond like Skwisgaar’s. That thing couldn’t be real.

Unreality with unreality...

Propping himself partially upright and turning his head, Pickles saw a large green creature that somehow managed resemble both Nathan and some huge alligator type thing. It suited him, somehow.

Finally looking down at himself, Pickles realized he’d become some sort of octopus. Thick and tapering, slick looking orange tentacles stretched out around him. That explained the bonelessness and the odd flexibility, he sure as hell could suck his own dick now if he could only figure out where it was. Did octopuses even have those? Too bad he’d never paid much attention in science class...

Movement off in the brush distracted him, something huge and white. The shadows of the branches gave the illusion of stripes, or maybe it actually had stripes? He couldn’t make it out with his vision still wavering like it was. Murderface or Toki? There was no way to tell, this one looked all animal from where he sat. Either way, he was still missing somebody.

Turning his head still further and seeing the nightmare thing that Toki had become, Pickles decided that maybe yopo really wasn’t the best drug after all.

Pickles closed his strange new eyes tightly and things changed, he knew he was human again. Or at least mostly human, something was still off. And he was pretty sure he wasn’t in the Amazon anymore.

Things felt shifty, and Pickles became aware of heat and light, dry air and loose sand beneath his feet. This was definitely not his bedroom, unless Murderface had snuck in and redecorated. He slowly opened his eyes.

Something else was definitely weird, Pickles had four arms now. There were some sort of Hindu gods with four arms, so maybe he was a god now? Or was he still part octopus? And where the hell _was_ he? Nothing at all looked familiar this time, this wasn’t a regular memory, corrupted or not.

He was standing the shade of a large stone wall, some sort of structure, the sun was blindingly bright as he looked across the barren land. Vague shapes of huts shimmered in the heat, the pale sand of the landscape making everything almost glow.

Looking down to cut the glare, Pickles realized he was wearing a dress. Well not really a dress -there was no top- but a skirt of some sort. What if he had... No, he didn’t have tits, at least he didn’t have tits. His chest felt like it always had, except he was feeling with more than the usual number of arms. Tits would have been a bit too much to take.

The four arms thing was actually kind of cool now that the shock had worn off. If only he had his drum kit here, he would play the living hell out of it. But where was everybody, where were all the people? Why was he here all alone?

He heard voices. Coming from around the corner and growing louder, familiar voices. They were here too! They’d better not make fun of him for wearing this stupid skirt thing...

They turned the corner, yes it was them! And what the hell, Nathan, Skwisgaar, and Toki were all wearing skirts too! And they didn’t have tits either though, that was good. Murderface however, had for whatever unfortunate reason decided to walk around completely naked. He did sort of have tits but that was nothing unusual for him, he’d had small man-boobs for years. Still, it wasn’t a pretty sight.

Skwisgaar was carrying a... Well, some sort of stringed instrument, Pickles had no idea what it was. It looked vaguely similar to a mandolin, except it had a double body and two very long necks. Whatever it was, Skwisgaar knew how to play it and the sound was actually quite pleasant, although nothing like he’d ever heard before.

No one spoke, but somehow Pickles understood that they were to play a show here later.

Suddenly he was somewhere else, dizzy with the speed of the shifting. 

His mind slowly focused, he knew this place. Charles hunched over a scarred desk, papers piled high around him. He looked so tired, shirt partially open and his hair rumpled from running his fingers through it in frustration.

It was their first year after they’d been signed, the six of them still living in that rundown house they’d rented. It was a crappy location, but they’d chosen it so they wouldn’t get many noise complaints. There were four bedrooms, but they all shared three and the fourth was turned into an office.

It was tax time. Poor Charles had been working for days, trying to sort out the personal and corporate taxes for all of them with no help. Pickles and Magnus had been keeping him company when they could, the others just stayed away.

Their avoidance was probably more helpful, but Pickles had an idea. He’d sent Magnus out to get what they needed, and he was due back at any moment.

Sure enough, here he came. “Got it!” He folded something small into Pickles’ waiting hand. “I’m gonna go, okay? Skwisgaar wants to work on that new part we wrote.”

“Okie dood, want sahm fer tha road?”

“You know I already got mine!” He grinned, showing a glimpse of what was in his other hand. “Good luck, man.” With a wave, he headed down that hall.

Pickles grabbed a handy CD case and shook a small amount of the white powder onto its smooth surface. Grabbing a business card off the desk, he cut several thin lines. Pulling out a short section of a drinking straw he always kept in his pocket for these situations, he snorted a couple. Yeah, this was good stuff here. Wordlessly he held the straw toward Charles, offering.

“No thank you, Pickles, you know I don’t do drugs.”

“Dood, it’s jest coke! It doesn’t feck ya up, it jest makes ya better! Cahm’on, jest try a line. If ya don’t like it I won’t ever ask ya again.”

“I really don’t think-“

“Do _one_ line an’ I’ll suck yer dick while ya up add all thet crap.” Pickles snorted another.

And that year the taxes had gotten done in record time.

Pickles thought harder... Or _did_ they? Just because he ‘remembered’ crouching beneath the desk with a mouth full of his manager’s cock while the calculator clicked with inhuman speed above him...

Did it happen? It might have happened.

No, surely it didn’t happen.

But it _might_ have. There was no way to know without asking, and he would never ask.

He was back in his room again, feeling weak and dizzy. This had been one hell of a night, but hopefully he was past the crazy part of the ride. Things seemed real again, in a way they hadn’t for hours. Well, for however long it had actually been, he knew from experience that his perception of time was usually the first thing to go.

He could probably sleep now, and he wanted to, needed to. Not even bothering to undress, Pickles crawled under his covers. If only the bed stayed steady, if only he could stay in in...

It did, he did, and Pickles drifted off to sleep.


End file.
